


Dying is no art

by betweenheroesandvillains



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: I am so sorry, I have never written blood loss before, M/M, this is what happens when I read the wrong prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:20:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3408689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenheroesandvillains/pseuds/betweenheroesandvillains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dying<br/>Is an art, like everything else.<br/>I do it exceptionally well.</p>
<p>I do it so it feels like hell.<br/>I do it so it feels real.</p>
<p>-- Lady Lazarus, by Sylvia Plath</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dying is no art

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I see this prompt:  
> Person B knowing they’re undoubtedly about to die within the next few seconds, likely from the gaping wound they’re bleeding out from. Instead of calling for help, they phone Person A and carry on a casual conversation as if nothing is wrong, making sure to mention how much they love them before their time runs out.  
> (otpdisaster on tumblr)

Dying, no matter what Sylvia Plath might have said, is not an art.

Nothing about dying is beautiful. And the blood flowing out of his multiple wounds can impossibly be mistaken for paint, no matter how much he tries to convince himself that it is hardly more. But paint would not hurt that much. Paint would not make him dizzy, paint would not make him freeze, paint would not make him shake with anxiety, it would not feel like panic bubbling through his veins, it would not... it would not...  
He loses the train of thought without noticing. All he knows is that his knees are giving in. “I should... probably sit down?” He has the vague feeling that talking to himself is somewhat unusual, but he just can’t help it, it is the only thing that feels right at that moment. He slumps down, leaning against a wall.  
The only thing that feels right...  
The cloth of his shirt slides over one of the bullet holes in his chest and a shockwave of pain runs through his body, clearing his mind. He is dying, yes. And he knows there is no way he can get to a hospital in time. He is losing too much blood too quickly. Now, he is not exactly a doctor, but he can tell that much, everyone could when sitting in a puddle of blood. He does not need Thorin to tell him that his time is running out.

Thorin.  
“Oh no. No, no!”  
Thorin.  
He thought they’d have a lifetime, or, to be more accurate, half a lifetime together. They had quit the job. He is no longer “The Burglar”. Thorin is no longer “Oakenshield”. Then again, he should have known better. You do not just stop being an assassin, and old enemies are always just waiting for a chance.  
Has Thorin taken his antidepressants this morning? He isn’t sure. He probably should remind him of that...  
This time he realizes his mind has started wandering, and forces himself to focus. He needs to call Thorin. Make sure he has taken his medication. Make sure he knows he is loved. With numb, stiff fingers he manages to fumble the mobile phone out of his pocket, glad that he has Thorin on speed dial. He knows he would not have been able to dial the whole number.

“Âzyungel?”  
He smiles softly. Thorin’s deep voice tames the panic and manages to clear his clouding mind a little.  
“Âmralimê. I just thought... I just couldn’t remember, have you taken your medication this morning?” He hears Thorin chuckle lightly, and his heart flutters, as it always does. Or maybe, it has started fluttering a while ago and he has not noticed, being too preoccupied with the numbness in his extremities. With the nausea he is hardly handling. With the headache he has developed within the last few minutes which is only getting worse.  
“I have, don’t worry. As every morning.” He is relieved.  
“Good, good. And you know I only worry about you because I love you. I love you so much...” He starts babbling, he realizes, but he needs to say it. He needs to tell Thorin how much he loves him. Thorin obviously catches his strange tone, because his next words are suspicious, concerned.  
“Are you okay? You know I love you, too, but you sound... strange? Confused? Do you need help, âzyungel?”  
Another flash of pain sears through his body and he can not suppress a sob, it surely is nasty feeling your body fall apart and fail.  
“Âzyungel?” Thorin is alarmed. Afraid. He cannot stand Thorin being afraid, that beautiful, gorgeous man is not supposed to be afraid! He should be happy!  
“I’m alright. Just... just... I have a headache. It’s distracting... It’ll get better soon, âmralimê.” He even manages a short laugh, although it results in a wave of pain. “And you realize you are the one worrying now, love?” He doesn’t want to speak anymore, he can’t concentrate on his train of thought for more than a handful of seconds, surely not enough to compose a complete sentence. And he wants to listen to Thorin’s voice so terribly, it hurts, it literally hurts. It is a pain resembling the one of his various wounds, but worse, so much worse...  
“Pardon?” He had not been listening. What a waste of time. Precious time.  
“I said you can bet I’m worrying about you, Bilbo Baggins.” Oh he loves this man so much, he needs to tell him, over and over again... But he can’t. Thorin should not suffer before it is necessary. Not this man, who has suffered so much. More than anyone should.  
“That is what I love you for, âmralimê.” He feels his body shutting down. Giving in. Giving up. His brain is affected, it doesn’t work as quickly as it used to. But something crawls to the surface... Slowly...  
“When will you be home? Cause Gandalf called, saying he’ll be visiting, probably together with Bard, but he wasn’t sure. Anyways, they’ll be here at about six, and I just wanted to know when to make dinner.”  
It is gloriously domestic. It is all Bilbo wanted in his life. All he will never see again.  
Memories flash before his eyes, and for a split second he panics, thinking he is exiting life now, but his pulse is still there, weak, but there.  
Thorin in the dim light of a spring morning, making coffee, wearing boxers and a faded old T-shirt. Thorin reading ‘On The Road’, his eyes behind his glasses darting between the pages and Bilbo, a faint smile on his lips. Thorin with tousled hair, looking at him in the morning as if he is the sun, the moon, and all the stars together.  
“I... I will probabl... I’ll come a little late...r.” Breathing is hard. Speaking is even harder. “Love,” he manages to whisper. “Sorry for... that.” Slurred speech. Not good.  
“It’s okay,” Thorin says hurriedly, “I’ll just make something you can warm up. And we both know Gandalf will stay a while. You will hardly miss him.”  
“Love ya.” He wants to say it like a litany, over and over again. He wants to promise something... promise...  
And there it is. The thing that has been floating under the surface. And he is so tired, so exhausted. He needs Thorin to know how much he loves him. Promise him he always did.

“I... I did not want to do it like this, but... I’m...” He is searching for the right words. Thorin waits, though not patiently, not at all. Bilbo takes a deep breath. And another one. His heart beats too fast, he chokes, he sweats, he feels like throwing up any second. His vision is blurred.  
Precious time.  
“We have been together for almost six years now, Thorin.” His voice quivers, but it stays clear. “And we have been through a lot.” It almost breaks. Just two more sentences. Two more. Two... Another deep breath.  
“And I love you, and I have just one question left unanswered. Thorin Durinson, would you please marry me?” The world is holding its breath, he thinks. He surely is. So is Thorin.  
He falls to his side, unable to sit upright. Dying in the dirt, waiting for the one answer he needs.  
“Of course, Bilbo. Âzyungel. Of course! But wh...” He can’t answer that question. He can’t. He needs Thorin happy. And he is happy, he can hear it. Happy. Worried sick. But happy.  
“The ring... Is in my drawer. Und...r th... socks...”  
He isn’t making much sense anymore. He knows it. He states the only truth he knows.  
“I love you, Thorin. I love you so much. I love you.”  
He can’t understand Thorin’s answer. He just smiles softly. The voice washes away his fears.  
He hangs up.

He retches. He shivers, acid in his mouth, his nose. He doesn’t feel too much. He is cold. He can hardly tell one colour from another. His head feels like exploding.  
Dying is not an art.  
Nothing about dying is artistic. Lying in his own blood and vomit is not art. Pain is not art. Crying is not art. Sobbing is not art.

He does not care.  
All he can bring himself to care about is...  
Is...  
Ruing that he can’t believe in a God...  
A God... and an afterlife.  
He is sorry that he will never, never see Thorin again.  
Never...  
N...

**Author's Note:**

> I am sorry. I am so sorry. But I saw it, and I needed to write it.  
> I wanted to make it the other way round first, Thorin dying anf Bilbo living.  
> Then I thought, that would not hurt half as much. Hence, this version.


End file.
